


The Annual Holmes-Watson Multi-Faith Non-Denominational December Shindig

by auroreanrave



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Found Family, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:00:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21907858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auroreanrave/pseuds/auroreanrave
Summary: The birth of a Holmes-Watson tradition in three separate Christmases.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Joan Watson (Elementary)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 51





	The Annual Holmes-Watson Multi-Faith Non-Denominational December Shindig

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays all! Elementary is one of my favourite ever shows of all time and the series finale was perfect. I'm a total devotee of the Holmes-Watson family and writing a found family holidays story was the most natural thing, if a little short. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

It starts off eighteen months into their partnership because Holmes never celebrates the holidays and Joan never has the time.

Or rather never had the time. Her former career as a surgeon left her holidays carved up into the scant moments she could spare between emergency surgeries or rounds or appointments with nervous, scared patients who would much all rather have been home and safe and healthy, rather spending the festive season in a hospital bed.

This time though, she has time. There's always the threat - a term she admittedly uses lightly since the lightning-flash of adrenaline every time there's a new case and the pieces start sliding together in her head hasn't faded yet - of a case. Last Christmas Eve, they'd been called out to a murder of a very badly-behaved Santa Claus and had solved it within two hours.

This time around, there's no signs of a case, and Joan's family are picking her up from the brownstone in fifteen minutes. Snow is threatening the windows but traffic is quieter than average for Christmas Eve and Joan is hoping the drive home is nice and quick and uneventful.

"So what do you do instead of turkey?" asks Holmes. He's currently laid on the floor, legs flat against the adjacent wall, and is trying to discern whether the position of the head and therefore the salivary glands affect the taste of several leading brands of chewing gum. Joan is only partially worried about him choking on a piece; she's seen him do worse.

"It's more like a pot luck. My brother does some chicken dish, my mom does vegetarian stuff, my dad does a ham, and I normally bring dumplings."

"Not this year though. I can smell a distinct lack of them."

"No, because we didn't have time for me to make them and every little store in the city is sold out of them. So this year," Joan says, rustling her oversized plastic bag with what counts as a flourish, "they're getting potstickers and Chinese cabbage and they're going to like it."

"I'm sure they will. I hope it's a more entertaining holiday than last year."

"Last year was fine."

"You were texting me throughout. I have admittedly few experiences of a traditional family Christmas, but it seems as though being engaged and happy with the day isn't necessarily compatible with messaging me all day."

There's no lie to that, really. Last year had been a whirlwind of unpleasant emotions, of her brother and his wife fighting, of her mother being tired and snappish and her father meek and conciliatory to the point of nebbishness, of Joan having to justify her change in career, the complete one-eighty her life had taken. She'd texted Sherlock throughout and caught an early train home the day after Christmas so she could feel something close to sane.

"You're more than welcome to come with. My mom and dad have plenty of space and plenty of food. Plus Mom loves you and Dad will be too busy asking you questions for him to think about Gabrielle."

Holmes places his current wad of gum onto a piece of posterboard at his side and looks across at Joan. "Are you sure, Watson?"

"Of course," says Joan. "I could do with a friend at Christmas these days."

Holmes nods and looks back to the posterboard. "Juicy Fruit, I think."

"Sorry?"

"I'd be delighted to, Watson. I'll make arrangements now." Holmes springs to his feet and pulls out his phone. "While I make a couple of calls, could you pack Clyde so he's travel ready?"

Joan blinks and smiles, taking it in her stride as she is wont to do, and starts preparing Clyde's tank as she texts her mother to let her know that there's a new houseguest this year, and Sherlock taps away at his phone as he heads upstairs.

In the twelve minutes it takes for Mary Watson's tired but trusty car to pull up outside the brownstone, a delivery has been made by a smiling girl with red and green festive braids of three packages in brown paper and twine, Joan has prepared Clyde and his tank for transport, and Holmes has an aged leather weekend bag ready to go, his cheeks pink and his eyes bright.

By the time they arrive back at the brownstone four days later, Holmes has managed to endear himself to Joan's entire family, been taught to cross-stitch by Joan's great-aunt Mei, slept more than she's ever seen him do so in a single sitting, and win over Oren with a signed copy of Midnight Ranger #1 and vintage books for her parents.

And so a tradition is born.

* * *

The next Christmas is on the back of two difficult cases, both involving dead innocents, and Joan has taken to extra-long hot showers and Advil to get through her nights of broken sleep; she can scrub the blood from her skin but can't forget the faces.

Two days before Christmas, she's packing her bags for home, the criminal cases closed, if not comfortably so, and it only occurs to her before she sets off for her parents', that she has not reinvited Sherlock.

She finds him in the screen room, sitting on the floor, eating from a bowl of oddly-coloured noodles and reading a book at the same time.

"Hey, so I didn't know if you wanted to come around for Christmas this year, but I'd love to have you." It sounds lame in her ears; she should have asked sooner, but there's no time like the present.

"Are you sure? I don't want to intrude."

"You're not intruding," says Joan. "My parents love you. They're happier to see you than me, probably."

"Well I hardly think that's true," says Sherlock, rising to his feet. "But regardless, I'd be delighted."

This Christmas is more peaceful, more restful. Joan actually sleeps and spends time with her mother while Sherlock engages Oren and her father in several minor investigations (a spate of delivery package thefts in the neighbourhood; a missing cat that is wonderfully restored to the household). Joan begins to think of the time of year as one of celebration, of profound restoration.

"We'll host next time," Joan says as they say goodbye to her parents. Sherlock's suitcase is crammed with leftovers at her mother's insistence and Clyde is sporting a tiny knitted Santa hat.

"I'm sure that'll be lovely," says her mother, leaning up on tiptoe to kiss Sherlock's cheek. "I know you're not really religious, but something on Christmas Day would be lovely."

Sherlock nods, words failing him for once, and puts the cases away in their car.

And so begins the new tradition of hosting non-denominational Christmas at the brownstone.

* * *

It's the December after Joan has sent her cancer running, four years after Reichenbach, and she's finally got her appetite back enough to enjoy Christmas dinner. Holmes and Gregson have taken charge of the kitchen and Joan is on welcoming duty. Oren brings his fiancee and Henry and Mary drive up together, picking up Lin on the way there, and soon the house is full of warmth and laughter and the smell of the gluhwein that Ms Hudson is brewing on the stove and of the challah bread Eugene baked.

Joan looks around and sees them all together. Her parents and her siblings laying out the table and Marcus and Chantal greeting Eugene and Nicole with mugs of expensive hot chocolate. Kitty watches Archie and Arthur play with wooden blocks in front of the roaring fire and Joan rises to answer the knock at the front door. She finds Alfredo, the shoulders of his hoodie dusted with fresh snow, and pulls him into a hug once he's crossed the threshold and she's closed the door.

"Place is busy. It's nice," says Alfredo. "Helluva nice change from outside."

"Yep. There are plenty of bedrooms available if it's going to be hard getting home tonight," Joan offers. There are at least a dozen bedrooms going spare and renovated with comfortable beds and fresh, clean sheets, because Joan had been stuck on home rest while she finished up her final round of chemo and needed a project. Making the brownstone comfortable with potential multiple guests while she worked through cold cases made sense.

"I'm all good, I think," Alfredo smiles. "But thanks. Never thought I'd see the day when this place had so many happy people in it. This is good, Joan."

"Me neither. But times change." Joan squeezes Alfredo's hand because after all these years, she's grown so affectionate of him, of all of the irregulars, that the word family is the only word that fits right.

Alfredo squeezes back and heads over to Kitty, hunkering down as he takes off his jacket, so he can play blocks with Arthur and Archie. Lin circles close, she and Alfredo exchanging grins.

"I agree with him," Holmes says at her shoulder. She turns to see him; he has a smudge of flour on his eyebrow and something that looks like turkey grease on his wrist, but he looks pleased and happy. "I'm glad we made a family here, Watson."

"Me too," Joan says. Her heart is full, bursting at its edges. It's no conventional family by any standards, but it's hers and Sherlock's and Arthur's and it's good. So good she can barely think about it.

Joan accepts the arm that Sherlock offers, rising from her seat, Sherlock's hand resting atop hers. She can smell spices and baking. She can hear laughter and soft talking, the rustling of presents being unwrapped and glasses being clinked. Sherlock's hand is warm on hers.

Arthur reaches them both, pink-cheeked and smiling, and takes each of their hands and then, as a happy little unit, the three of them make their way into their warm little kitchen to see to dinner.


End file.
